


Define "Stupid"

by JayRain



Series: Define "Steve Rogers" [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Brooklyn, Bucky Barnes Feels, Captain America - Freeform, Captain America: The First Avenger, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Letters, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, SHIELD, Strategic Scientific Reserve, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7872595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayRain/pseuds/JayRain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky told him, "Don't do anything stupid before I get back."  Steve realized after the fact he should have asked Bucky to "define stupid".  He's pretty sure that what he's doing now will fit Bucky's definition. But Steve has never been one to back down from a fight. Through a series of letters, Steve explains why he's gone and done something "stupid" almost as soon as Bucky left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Camp Lehigh, 1942

_1\. Camp Lehigh, 1942_

Dear Bucky,

I know you said not to do anything stupid until you got back. I told you that you were taking all the stupid with you, but I really should have asked you to define 'stupid'. Because you and I have always had very different ways of rationalizing what's stupid and what's not.

I know you'll never understand why I need to go to war so badly. I _know_ people are dying, Buck. I _know_ what war does, and that's exactly why I need to be there. I told you that I have no right to stay behind, so… I'm doing something stupid. But only by your definition.

I'm writing to you from Camp Lehigh. Yeah, I know, Jersey. That night of the expo, after you left, I went in and I thought they caught me. You'll be glad to know that I had a momentary flash of you saying "I told you so," and I almost ran. Almost. I'm not proud of that. But a man named Abraham Erskine came to talk to me. He's from Germany, but working for something called the Strategic Scientific Reserve, some sort of secret branch of the military. He said he could give me a chance.

That's all I've wanted, Buck. Just a chance. Just someone to see beyond the sickly skinny kid who needs his bigger friend to fight his battles. I know you always had my back and always meant well, but honestly, I wanted you to give me a chance, too. I know you wanted to protect me and you'll probably think that this defines 'stupid', but I took him up on it.

I've been here for about a week, and it's not so bad. I remember the stories you told me about boot camp, so I'm not completely green going in. Fine, I'm greener than spring leaves. I know you're probably laughing reading that. Heck, I'm laughing writing it. And I know the other guys, all bigger and stronger and faster than I can ever hope to be, are laughing at me too. But it doesn't matter. I want a chance. I've been given a chance. I'm taking this chance for what it is. Just a chance.

At the start of the week Colonel Phillips (did you ever meet him?) said they'd choose one person. Looking around, I don't know that I'll be in the running. But you know me, stubborn as a mule. You told me once you think I liked getting hit. I don't really like it, no; but I can't stand aside and let a bully walk all over me. I can't run away. Do that enough and they'll just expect you to.

Everyone seems to expect that Gilmore Hodge will be Phillips's pick, and Hodge seems to agree. I see the way they look at me, like they don't know why I bother trying. Some would call me stupid for sticking around, when I'm half the size of the next smallest guy here. I can't lie to you, Buck, it's hard. The days are long. I'm sore, and I don't know if I'm even capable of building muscle at this point. Phillips looks at me like he's afraid I'm going to keel over. Sometimes I think I might. I just tell them, "I could do this all day."

I guess I miss Brooklyn, but getting beaten up in back alleys just isn't the same without you around. Not that I expected you to help me, but… I guess it was nice that you did. I love your family; they've been so good to me since my mother died. But when Dr. Erskine offered me a chance I took it. Why? Because Brooklyn just isn't home without my best friend there.

Listen to me, going on like your sisters do, getting all sappy. I imagine that you're over there having a grand time. That you're not giving it your all, because you know you can't win the war until I get there. I know you do that, don't pretend that you don't. You hold back, and think you can make me feel better about how lousy I really am doing. Well, this time I'll meet you over there, and we won't hold back. We'll give 'em hell together.

Time to rest though; more running, more PT in the morning. Just another day or two until Phillips makes his choice. I've held out this long, I can keep going. I can do this all day. You'd be pretty proud of me, Buck.

Best,

Steve


	2. Baracks, 1942

Dear Bucky,

Remember the first time your father poured us whiskey? Or the time I rode the Cyclone with you? Yeah, my stomach feels like that right now. So much has happened in the last few days that I feel like my head's still on that roller coaster. I'm completely exhausted, but I doubt I'll be able to sleep. Not that I'd want to, because I'm afraid if I fall asleep, when I wake up this will all have been a dream.

Phillips and Erskine chose me. Steve Rogers, the skinny sickly kid from Brooklyn. When Phillips called me into his office I was certain that he'd be sending me back to Brooklyn. That I'd go back to shuffling the sidewalks and avoiding alleys and trying not to get punched simply for existing. Back to an empty apartment. I actually asked him, "Is this a joke?" Phillips just grunted and sent me on my way, and even though Erskine just left, after reassuring me that he's positive I'm the right candidate, a huge part of me still feels like this is all the best dream I've ever had, and I'm afraid to wake up from it.

The other part that convinces me it's a dream? This dame Peggy Carter. She's tough as nails, but far prettier. I'd never tell her that, though. She's with the SSR. I don't know why such a beautiful woman would want to join up with the army, even a secret scientific branch of it, but, well, here she is. You'd probably like her. She laid Hodge flat on the ground on day one and barely blinked.

I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. Dr. Erskine explained the procedure, and kept telling me "no matter what happens." Now I'm lying here in the dark, alone (the other guys were shipped back to their units), with a flashlight writing this to you. It's not just that I'm afraid this has all been a dream, it's that for the first time I'm actually afraid.

The first time Erskine used his formula, the result was horrific. The guy didn't die, but he went completely insane. Erskine doesn't seem worried about that happening to me, but it could. There are a lot of uncertainties, and it frightens me. I could die tomorrow, or worse. It's the 'or worse' that really gets me. I mean, if I die at least it was in an attempt to serve my country. Not the same way you're doing over there in Europe, but in my own way.

I've always wanted my life to mean something, and it could now. And the fact that it could, but things could go horribly wrong, is terrifying. I'm still going through with this, because I worked too hard to back out, and because Erskine has so much confidence in me. I've never run from a fight, no matter how often I've wanted to; this is just the biggest fight yet.

I wish you were here, but even if you were, this isn't a fight you can win for me. If anything, I'd just want you on the sidelines cheering me on. I know that if you knew what I was about to do you'd say it was stupid, but you'd also be proud of me for keeping my head in the game and seeing this through. So even if I do die tomorrow, don't remember me as the skinny kid who couldn't hold his own in a fight; but as the kid who couldn't back down from one.

I'm hoping for the best. And if that happens, then just maybe we can work together to help win the war.

About to do something stupid,

Steve


	3. This Is War, 1942

Dear Bucky,

The good news is I survived. You probably wouldn't recognize me, actually; I sometimes don't recognize myself.

The bad news is I've officially been a soldier less than 12 hours and I've already seen two people die. They died because of me, and I don't know how to reconcile that. They both died doing something they believed in. But the one thing they had in common was me, and I'm wrestling with having blood on my hands already. The night you left you told me "This is war, Steve." How do you deal with that first blood? How do you sleep knowing what you've done? How do you look at yourself in the morning when you go to shave, knowing that because of you, someone else isn't ever going to shave again?

I know you'll tell me that I'm too hard on myself and maybe you're right. Maybe it's hitting me harder because Dr. Erskine was one of the people who died in front of me today.

I watched it happen. I'd been out of the chamber thing for mere minutes when I heard gunshots and Erskine was struck. I watched his blood spread out on his coat. I watched him fall. I held his hand and stared in his eyes when he stopped breathing. It's so hard for me to explain everything I felt because I felt so much all at once. There was the shock of him being gunned down, and fear because with him gone I don't have anyone to help me through this change. Sadness, because the first person to really, truly believe that I can do more and be more, is now gone.

I didn't expect to feel the guilt, because watching my friend die, I suddenly wondered what would be going through my mind if that was you there. And I suddenly realized that if I do get to Europe, and we do end up fighting side by side, that could very well happen. But the guilt was because in that final moment I wasn't necessarily thinking of Erskine, but of you.

And then I did something stupid. I don't know if it was the need for vengeance, or justice, or just to make myself feel better. I didn't think, I just took off after the shooter. For the first time I had the ability to fight back; how could I _not_ take the chance? Looking back now, I could have been shot, I could have drowned, I could have been run over multiple times. But if I had thought it through, the guy could have gotten away with Erskine's formula, and I couldn't let that happen.

That's when I watched a second man die in front of me. He told me, "Hail Hydra" and popped out a fake tooth that turned out to be a poison capsule. He convulsed and his eyes rolled back and I just sat there, soaking wet next to another dead body, with no answers. Erskine's killer was dead, but I didn't feel any better. The vial of formula he stole got smashed on the docks. The secret is safe. I should feel relieved. But I don't.

I know this is war, Bucky. I know people are dying, laying down their lives for what they believe in. I agreed to be a test subject because I believed that I needed to enlist and join the fight. Erskine believed in me. To a degree I think Peggy Carter believes in me. I know that this is the right thing to do. I know war means killing, means people dying, even people that I care for. I just didn't think that I'd have to start watching the dying so soon.

This hasn't changed my mind. If anything, I want more than ever to take the fight to the Nazis, and to whoever this Hydra is. The SSR has better resources than the regular Army, so they're working on figuring it out. Meanwhile I have a private room with a pretty comfy bed and people asking me what I want to eat (I've been hungry _all day long_ … they tell me it's a side effect of an enhanced and increased metabolism). I have quite a few creature comforts, but I'm lonely. I'd rather be on a cot in a tent or some barracks. I want to have a drink and talk over what I saw today. But the only people I could really talk to about that are either dead or overseas.

This letter will have to suffice. I know you're probably shaking your head. Maybe you're even popping an antacid or something. That's how I know that, despite the physical changes, I'm still me on the inside. I just wouldn't be Steve Rogers if I wasn't keeping you on edge, wondering what stupid thing I'd be pulling next, right?

I don't know when they'll have me ship out, but hopefully it's soon. It's late now, and I've had a long day, but I wanted to write you and get my thoughts down before it's all even more of a jumble. I miss you, Buck. And my last words to you still stand: don't win the war til I get there, since I now actually have an excellent shot at getting there.

Tired and sad,

Steve


	4. When Will It Be Enough? 1942

Dear Bucky,

I know we both passed Mrs. Marshall's history class (mostly because you helped me with the War of 1812 stuff and I kept reminding you why Alexander Hamilton was important), but I don't remember wars being quite this political. I'm sure they have been, but all we ever learn are the battles, not the dozens or hundreds of negotiations that go on behind the curtain. It's like that scene in the Wizard of Oz, remember? Or Pinocchio. We don't see the strings being pulled, just the outcome.

I feel like I'm caught behind Oz's curtain, watching him pull levers and waiting for my chance, or Pinocchio waiting to have my strings cut.

The SSR's network is so good it's almost scary. Within a day we knew what Hydra is and who's behind it all, and it's Johann Schmidt: the guy who first tried Erskine's formula. There's more, much more that I apparently don't have the clearance to know. The SSR is heading over to Europe tomorrow: Howard Stark, Peggy Carter, Agent Phillips, and… Not me.

Bucky, you know how I've spent my whole life being told 'no' and that I 'can't' and that I'm 'not good enough'. Or anything enough, really, take your pick: not big enough, strong enough, tough enough, fast enough. But now I am big. Strong. Tough. Fast. I chased a stolen taxi cab through Brooklyn just the other day! But it's not enough. Philips told me, "I ordered an army and I got you. And you are not enough."

Erskine wanted me to have a chance. I took the chance and it was successful, so _why isn't it enough?_

I wanted to ask him, I really did. But I'm in the army now, and Phillips is my commanding officer, so all I could do was stand at attention and say "Yes, sir," and stare at the wall behind him. You'd be proud of me for doing that, Buck, because it kept me from doing something really stupid. If I'd looked at him I would have done something insubordinate. I've been in the army two weeks and even I know that's not good. I may have been chosen for this project, and it may have been (surprisingly) successful, but I'm still a soldier and I still have to follow the standards.

But it's so hard. Peggy said goodbye, clipped and professional as always. I doubt I'll see her again, at least so long as the war is going on. It stings a bit; she was the first dame to maybe actually see _me_ when I was still the little guy just trying his luck on a fool's chance. I didn't really get to know Stark much, but he seemed like a fun guy, just this energetic bundle of nerves creating for the joy of it, and yeah, his work can be useful, too: added bonus. I think you'd like him. Phillips was… well, the typical gruff army guy. I overheard him telling Erskine once that he thought I was a sympathy candidate. And even with this being successful he still looks at me like he's disappointed.

I know he wanted more. I know he was expecting more. I wish I could be more for him, but even more so, I wish I could prove that to him. Phillips isn't Erskine, though; he's a military man who's seen more than a few things in his life. He's all about forms and paperwork and regulations. This is war, and we have to play it safe. I get that. But sometimes, if the rules you're playing by aren't helping you out, maybe you need to make new rules. But what do I know? I'm just the overly-muscled lab rat.

That seems to be my only option at this point: ship out to a secret SSR lab somewhere out west, along with samples of my blood, so the SSR's scientists can get started on trying to replicate Erskine's serum. My blood is all that's left of it. Stark said something about reverse-engineering the serum, and then a bunch of scientific terminology I didn't quite understand. So apparently, that's what I'm good enough for: sitting around in a lab.

I've been sitting on the sidelines my whole life. Now I finally have the ability to get in, and I'm _still_ not quite enough. I wish I knew when or if it will _ever_ be enough, so I can at least decide if I should stop trying. Okay, I know you're probably laughing right now, because when will _I_ ever stop trying? It's just not part of who I am.

The one bright side is that, after everyone left, Senator Brandt (oh right, he's one of the politicians who tries to move things through Congress for the SSR) told me that he might be able to get me to serve, even still. Phillips was gone by then, and there were no other military personnel in the room, so I figured I'd be fine agreeing. I'd honestly rather go behind Phillips' back than spend the rest of my time in a cage- I mean, lab.

Yes, it's probably stupid, but if they catch me I'll just tell them the serum scrambled my brain. Maybe. We both know I'm a lousy liar. My nose would probably grow longer than Pinocchio's if I tried. Brandt's on several special committees, so he said he can pull all the strings he needs to make this work. I know it's another risk, but if it gets me closer to the front lines I'm willing to take it. I'm done not being enough.

Cutting the strings,

Steve


	5. Stop Laughing, Jerk

_1942_

Dear Bucky,

Remember the night before you left, we argued about "important jobs" that needed doing? I think my new gig is payback for me telling you I didn't want to collect scrap metal in a little red wagon. This… well, it's better than a laboratory, and I suppose better than digging through junk for scrap metal. And Brandt's aide told me that the senator's got a lot of pull in Washington, especially since the procedure was a success. Theoretically, I could make it to the front lines, but no one can say when.

Brandt's aide is a good guy, and I've been spending more time with him since Brandt himself had to go back to Washington. He's been responsible for scheduling and setting things up, and he assures me that I'll make it overseas eventually. He's either telling the truth, or he's the best liar I've ever met.

The suspense is killing you, isn't it. You're going to see the newsreels sooner or later, so it's better that you hear this from me first: my road to the front lines is the USO. I feel ridiculous just writing it. Reread it all you want: you've always had good eyes, and you're not misreading what I wrote. And stop laughing, because I know you are.

They call me Captain America, and I advertise series-E defense bonds.

Brandt's aide put it this way:bonds buy bullets, and bullets kill Nazis. It's a way for everyone to feel like they're doing their part to help America and the Allies win the war. I told you in my last letter that I don't remember wars being so political, but I also don't remember them being so expensive. They only ever talk about the cost of life, never the monetary cost. I don't want to ask about the sheer level of funding that was necessary for them to put the stamp of approval on the project that made me into this, not when you and thousands of other guys are over there putting your lives on the line and in need of food and weapons and supplies.

If government money made me, does that now make me government property? I keep wondering that whenever I go into my dressing room (stop laughing!) and see my costume (no, really, Bucky, I'm serious). The government spent money to make me, and now I'm convincing people to spend more money. I suppose the war is good for business, especially after the Depression.

I've only done the first couple of shows here in New York. I'm surrounded by dames with legs that go for miles, singing and dancing. We should really switch places, Buck. You'd be in your element here. You always were better with people, and with girls. They listen to you. You could probably do this job without a script; me, I have to read off paper taped inside this ridiculous shield, because apparently I'm a "defender of freedom". You're laughing, aren't you. It's okay; if I were you, I'd probably be laughing too.

But the next time the 107th gets a shipment, maybe bonds paid for the equipment. And maybe someone bought that bond because they saw my show. Just maybe I'm sort of there with you at the front. It's a stretch, but I have to keep thinking I'll make it there. It's a process. Politics is about jumping through hoops, right?

If this is what it takes to get where I'm meant to be, then I'll do it all day, every day. I won't let Dr. Erskine, or you, or anyone else, down. You may be laughing, but you won't be disappointed.

Keep laughing, chucklehead,

Steven G. Rogers: Captain America


	6. Symbols

Dear Bucky,

I'd like to clear a few things up for you, and for the other guys who are probably betting on this.

There are no sequins on my costume. It does not sparkle at all. My shield does not have glitter on it. I'll let you keep guessing on the makeup. Now, the showgirls, they're dressed to the nines in red, white and blue sparkles, and makeup that looks like it belongs in a magazine. It really should be you here, Bucky. You wouldn't even have to talk, just give everyone that cocky grin you do so well and they'd be lining up to buy bonds from Captain America. I'd petition the senator for us to change places, but again, I don't think Brandt wants to see me in any danger. He has to protect his investment, you know.

It sounds like I'm ungrateful to him, I know. I really do appreciate what he's trying to do. He's making me a symbol, and people need symbols. They need reminders of why they're fighting, or why they're contributing money that was tight to begin with. They need hope.

Being Captain America definitely does have more perks than just being Steve Rogers did. I'm finally seeing the world beyond Brooklyn, for one. I did a couple shows in New York and the crowds were so good and bond sales were so improved (even though I stuttered) that Brandt told his aide to take the show on the road. I think the farthest I've ever been from New York was Camp Lehigh. We're in Philadelphia now. Fitting, I know: Captain America comes to the birthplace of USA's freedom.

The mayor gave me a tour of the city, and Brandt showed up; he said it was because we were closer to Washington and he was able to step away. Mostly it's another big city, like New York, though if you'd asked me before this I'd have said there's no place like New York. Same bustling streets, same tall buildings, same people working to get by and hoping the war ends soon. The mayor talked about the history and pointed out places like Ben Franklin's house. He saved the Liberty Bell for last.

While the mayor and Brandt talked shop I stared at the bell. It doesn't ring anymore. It's too badly cracked and damaged to do that. Turns out the story about it cracking the first time they rang it? That one our elementary teacher told us about? A myth. A story larger than life to inspire hope and pride. I just stared at that cracked bell for the longest time, tuning out the mayor and the senator. I didn't have my costume on. In a plain army uniform (because they do still consider me army, even if I'm not deployed), I'm not very recognizable (yet) and I like it. In the costume I'm Captain America, the symbol; out of it, I'm Steve Rogers, just a regular guy trying to help the war effort along.

In the costume, I'm somebody. I'm a symbol. People think I can actually do something, so they believe in me. It's actually a bit daunting because I don't want to let anyone down. Not the Senator, not the audiences, and not the men who are actually fighting. I don't want to let you down, other than the part about no glitter or sequins, that is. I'm some impressive symbolic figure, but I don't really do what I was created to do. I'm put on display. Kind of like this bell. It doesn't ring; it just sits in Philadelphia, drawing crowds who believe the myths they've heard about it. It doesn't do anything, but people are drawn to what it stands for.

You don't know how badly I wish I was over there with you, Buck. It's killing me to suit up and go out on a stage, knowing that you and a bunch of other guys we know are out there fighting and dying. It kills me to know that one day one of my letters will get returned because you're not there to read it. That right now you're probably in some rickety camp, or in some muddy trench, while I'm waiting backstage at a concert hall.

I'm sure you're jealous of me, but look at it this way, I'm jealous of you. Maybe I'm a symbol to the people, but you're actually _doing_ something for the people. I suppose people need both, and Brandt reassures me that he's working to pull the strings to get me overseas, but with all the other wartime legislation that has to go through, it could take some time.

Keep fighting the good fight, Buck, but don't fight too hard. I won't be happy if you win the war before I get there.

Symbolically Yours,

Steve


	7. Man With a Plan

Dear Bucky,

The upside to being Captain America is I'm seeing more of America than I thought I'd ever hoped to see. It's a new city every few days, and a new state every week, at least. I'm seeing those amber waves of grain. Lots, and lots of amber waves. The plains stretch on for miles, farther than the eye can see; I can almost imagine them going all the way to California and dropping off into the Pacific ocean. I suppose there must be purple mountains somewhere though. I wonder if I'll get to see those or if there will be a sudden and pressing need to send Captain America off to fight the good fight. We can only hope, right?

I'm riding this bus and staring at the endless farmlands and trying not to read the newspapers. One of the girls got a letter hand-delivered to her right before our Chicago show. The chorus line was one dancer short that night, and I think they're looking to replace her while she goes home to Jersey to plan her husband's funeral. I'm afraid that any article I read, any newsreel I see, will have bad news about the 107th. I'd never forgive myself for not being there. That's the other perk of being Captain America, I suppose, they deliver my letters post-haste. Anything for their star-spangled man, right?

I'm getting better at my lines; the shield is just for looks now, and you wouldn't believe your eyes if you saw me talking to those crowds. Remember when Ms. Simpson made us memorize Shakespeare? You and Mary Smith did the Romeo and Juliet balcony scene, and I thought Mary was going to swoon by the end of it. I mean, half the girls in the class did. Then I got up and did that monologue from Julius Caesar. Or, I tried to. I forgot the lines, stuttered, and ended up getting a D on the assignment, only because Ms. Simpson pitied me because I'd been out sick with the flu. No one wants to fail a kid who could keel over and die in class, right?

This is a far cry from Shakespeare, but I suppose no one really wants to hear "to be or not to be, that is the question," when there are so many other questions that need answering. And right now people want to be entertained; they want to know that they're doing something to help. Senator Brandt's aide spends most of the bus rides between cities calculating bond sales and percentages and such and apparently bond sales are up quite a bit in every state we visit.

My lines are pretty good, and I've even started improvising a bit (aren't you proud? The guy who couldn't think on his feet save… well at least his 9th grade English grade), and the song's catchy; it's stuck in my head most of the time. But the one line that keeps coming back and giving me pause is "the star-spangled Man with a plan".

I can't argue with the star-spangled part; I'm essentially a walking American flag. It's the 'with a plan' part that I have to stop and think about. I get out there on stage and talk about the importance of buying bonds; the band plays and the chorus sings about how I'm protecting the American way, and ready to take out the Nazis; but it's another night, another show, another jump in bond sales. I don't have a plan. Senator Brandt has the plan, but he's a politician in a suit. Me, I'm Captain America; who are they going to listen to more?

Is this what the army's like, for real, Buck? People above you making plans that don't make sense, but insisting that they do? Going out on a limb, risking everything, on plans that other people made? Hoping for the best, hoping there's a contingency in case the plan doesn't work out?

I knew I was taking a risk when I signed on for the project; I know I'm taking a risk by defying Colonel Phillips. I'm trying to do what Erskine would have wanted me to do. I never told you, the night before the procedure he made me promise to remain "not a perfect soldier, but a good man." And before he died he pointed to my heart. I'm trying to be a good man and a good soldier; can a person be both? You were always a good guy, Buck. You had my back and got me out of a dozen back-alley brawls. Yes, I'm underestimating, don't roll your eyes. You always looked out for the little guy, and not just me. And now you're fighting the Nazis. Are you still a good man, or has the war changed some of that? Can we get through the war with our goodness still intact?

Somehow I don't think anyone's made a plan for that. The plan seems to be win the war, and by any means necessary. I'm afraid of what that means in the long run. What will we give up to achieve that? I'm selling bonds right now, but how long until they ask me, or any of us, to sell our souls?

Sorry to get melancholy on you, but I've been staring at the grain fields for too long, and it's getting late and there is an unread newspaper on the seat next to me. We're on to the next city, the next state, and I have no grand plans of my own. Except maybe a nap. If you were here I'd bet you a dollar that when I woke up, I'll still be seeing corn fields.

Miss you, jerk. Even if we're not really in a position to make our own plans right now, maybe you can at least plan to stay alive through this. If anyone is stubborn enough to do it, you are. Well, maybe I am, too. But right now, I'm going to get some rest that I probably don't deserve, and definitely didn't earn.

Sincerely yours,

The Star-Spangled Man With a Plan (or, Stevie)


	8. Writer's Cramp

Buck,

My hand hurts like the dickens, but I still have to write to you. If my writing gets a little illegible, it's because I've been signing autographs for the last three nights in a row. That's right, little Stevie Rogers is making appearances and signing autographs!

Kevin (Brandt's aide), had the idea to have me do signings with bond purchases after the shows. Buy a bond, get a signature from the Cap. Buy more than that, get a photo with him. Last night I think I went blind for a little bit from all the camera flashing. I'm seeing so many different people and getting a new perspective on everything.

One lady actually had me hold her baby during our photo. The poor kid cried the whole time. She told me that she had the baby a couple of months after her husband shipped out, and her mother was living with her and helping her. She wanted to keep the picture on the mantle to show him when he got home. I just remember your mum having all those family pictures on the walls in your dining room. There was that picture of your father in his old war uniform, and your uncles in theirs. I hope this lady's husband makes it back. I hope her kid doesn't grow up like I did; at least he can show any schoolyard jerks his picture with Captain America, right? Who knows, maybe someday you'll have a picture with Captain America to show your kids.

I'm caught between signing things as Captain America and Steve Rogers… one night I think I signed someone's promotional photograph as "Captain Steve". But they rushed him away and it was on to the next one, and the next. No one came back, and no one complained, that I heard, and when I told Kevin, he just shrugged. People are just happy to get close enough to the real deal. It made me feel a little better when, after two hours last night, my signature was reduced to a scrawl that may or may not have said some variation of my names.

Kevin wanted to schedule a signing for tomorrow night's show, but my hand hurts, so I compromised and asked if we could just do pictures. Pictures actually sell more bonds, so he was fine with it. I think Kevin is the closest thing I have to a friend right now, even if all we talk about is the show and the sales figures. Still beats getting punched in back alleys, or being alone in Brooklyn.

I still think about being over on the front lines, but the more people I meet and the more stories I hear, it helps me feel like I am doing the right thing. I have some peace with it, but if they told me tonight that I was needed in Europe, I'd be on a plane in a heartbeat.

I asked Kevin if I could send you a signed picture, so you could see what I look like now, but Kevin actually looked at me and asked, "Did he buy a bond?" I actually didn't know if he was joking or not. He probably was, but I didn't want to ask. I guess Erskine's serum only changes so much about a person. So I guess this letter will have to suffice. Look at it this way, you still get my signature, for what it's worth. Keep fighting, and wait for me to get there. We need two copies of that photo for our mantles.

You have a famous person's signature,

Steven G. America

Or is it Captain Steve

Or America Rogers…

PS, Yes, I'm still a punk. Old habits die hard.


	9. Kids

Dear Bucky,

Dr. Erskine's first question to me was, "Do you want to kill some Nazis?" It was my first test as Captain America, though I didn't realize it at the time. In the few seconds between his question and my answer, a dozen thoughts and memories went through my mind. In the end I did the stupid thing: I answered honestly. "I don't want to kill anyone," I told him. "I just don't like bullies."

You often told me that you thought I liked getting hit, but that was never the case. I hated getting hit; I also hated backing down. Back down once, and a bully will think he can walk all over you forever. For the record, I also hated how your mother would have me put a slab of meat on my face whenever I got a shiner. Not only did it feel weird, but it was a waste of perfectly good meat, at least in my opinion.

More people are bringing their children to the shows now that it's more than just singing and dancing girls. It started with some weekend matinee performances, but now more are coming at night. And while I'm sure my spiel about buying bonds is inspirational and all that, the kids sit there, staring. They want to fight, Buck. They want to know that they can do something; they hate bullies too. One boy, probably ten or eleven, tried to buy a bond with the change he got from collecting milk bottles. He didn't cry when the girl at the table told him it wasn't enough, but he wanted to. I pretended I needed to use the restroom and caught up with him down the hall. He only had a paper bag that he'd put his money in, so I signed that.

When we were kids, all our pocket money went toward candy, or baseball cards. We were recovering from a war and surviving a depression. Yeah, times were tough, but we didn't have to go through what these kids are going through. For me, at least I was old enough to try getting recruited, even though I didn't have a chance until meeting Erskine. These kids are watching their fathers and brothers go off to fight. They feel left behind. I told Kevin we need to start doing more matinees. He agreed; he's been looking kind of tired lately, and I know it can't be easy having someone like Senator Brandt breathing down his neck. It feels like the better we do, the higher Brandt sets his bar. Dream big, that's something I can get behind, but not if it's at the expense of others' well-being.

Can you imagine the stories we'll have to tell our kids? What do you think: side-by-side brownstones in Brooklyn, with an open yard in the back? Or maybe smaller houses out in the suburbs. Yeah, I'm laughing too. I don't think we can ever leave Brooklyn, at least not for good. I'm seeing some great places, but I do miss the old neighborhood: bullies and all.

I know that supposedly I'm a symbol bringing hope to the masses (stop laughing at me already, I think it's ridiculous too but I'm trying to work with it!) But when I see the kids smiling during every show, and hear them cheering, it gives _me_ hope, and makes me want to work harder to make sure that they and their kids don't have to grow up to find themselves drafted into war the way we were. The way _you_ were. They wouldn't take me, but had no problem taking you and countless others from their families and friends.

Every time a kid smiles from the front row I think that maybe someday I'll have a smiling kid of my own, and you'll have kids, and our wives will get together for coffee and gossip while we teach the kids to play catch, and the only hint they have of war is that picture on the mantle of you and me in our uniforms.

I know it probably sounds stupid, but a guy's gotta dream.

Someday,

Steve


	10. How Many Times Can You Punch Hitler?

Oh Bucky.

I thought it was unfortunate that I was too small and sickly to be considered for the Army; I thought it was bad that I was a 90 pound weakling. But there's this guy, Bill, who's part of the chorus. He's got this thin face and his hair is thinning on top. I don't even know who got the idea or how, but someone decided that with a little makeup, and the distance between the seats and the stage, Bill could pass for Hitler.

I don't know if it's funny or awful and I'm not sure if I'm an awful person for agreeing on it. But Bill seemed to be good natured about it, and jokingly asked if we could do a mock propaganda photo of me punching Hitler.

Add that to the increase in children in the audience, and Kevin pitched his new idea to Senator Brandt. Or Brandt's other aide in Washington. I wonder how Kevin feels being stuck on the road like this. I don't mind it because I don't really have a family; I know, your parents would have a room ready for me in a heartbeat, but I've never liked imposing, as much as I love them. Long story short, I didn't have anything tying me to Brooklyn other than pride, and when there's a war on you swallow your pride and do what you have to do. Kevin's never mentioned a family, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have one. Bill's married; his wife's a nurse stationed in France. He was injured in Italy and shipped back, but he still wants to do something, so he joined the USO. I suppose I can relate. As it turns out, he's a fantastic tenor. If we find a fourth guy, maybe we could form a barbershop quartet when the war's over.

I'm kidding. Mostly. Hey, could be fun, right?

Bill seems to have a good sense of humor about everything. Costuming threw together a passable Nazi uniform, and yesterday morning we rehearsed our new addition: Captain America socks ol' Hitler on the jaw.

A few weeks ago someone would have laughed to see me attempt to punch anyone, let alone Hitler. Or someone dressed up like Hitler, at least. And now I look like I could, quite literally, punch him into next week, next month even… but of course I'm going to hold back. Bill was a little nervous, but actually treated me pretty normally. It's nice after the way people are sort of intimidated by my size. He told me after he was just nervous about getting accidentally punched. I suppose I can't blame him.

There was a great reaction from the kids during the matinee. Bill started by just walking out on stage while I was giving my speech about bonds, and doing our parts, etc. without warning, and the kids started yelling and screaming. I just stopped and forgot everything I was about to say, and looked, and there's Bill standing on the end of the stage giving me the stink eye, and even though he was in that fake uniform, I swear Bucky, I almost lost it laughing at him. I think he was trying not to laugh, too.

But Bill and I kept it together, and managed to improvise something that looked like fighting. Mostly I just tried to look… well, majestically patriotic, I think Kevin put it (when he wasn't cracking up remember it) and Bill did this crazy exaggerated fall and sprawled over the stage while the music kept going and the kids kept cheering. It may have been our best show yet. After Kevin, Bill and I grabbed a drink. The bartender wouldn't charge us. We paid anyway. Times are tough for everyone.

It was… fun. It's far from the same as our old times in Brooklyn, but those were times before this war when things were different for everyone. We were all trying to get by, but we weren't struggling to survive the way we seem to be right now. I asked Bill why he'd agree to play the most hated man on earth (at the moment) and he said it was because he liked hearing the kids laugh and shout and have fun. He and his wife want a family when she comes home. When.

So another night, another city, another show. I think we're somewhere in the midwest still; it all blends together. I hope you and the rest of the 107th are doing alright and finding time to get a beer, or at least take a shot of something stronger. That's what's been missing for me during this trip. No, not alcohol. Remember when your father poured us whiskeys after we heard about Pearl Harbor? Yeah, me either. But that sense of connecting with some other people has been missing lately, and getting it back kind of helps. Sure, I have to pitch the benefits of bond sales for one, and pretend to punch the daylights out of another, but I don't feel quite as alone as I had.

Think about that barbershop quartet, Bucky. I think we really could be something. And much as I like Bill as a person, I really don't want to punch Hitler in the face for the rest of my life.

Punching for the greater good,

Steve


	11. Dames

Dear Bucky,

Remember how I said that Erskine's formula amplified everything about me? Not just physically, but my inner qualities as well? Apparently that also includes being utterly incompetent with dames.

First off, I don't think I've ever met one who really wants to talk to me. Remember Bonnie, the night of the expo? I think she spent most of that night watching you and Connie. Either she wished she was the one on your arm, or she was jealous of the way you paid attention to her sister, I'm not sure. I don't understand women. Never have. I mean, your own sister treated me like one of her kid brothers, even though I was older than she was!

Last night we'd just finished a show and people were lining up for the usual autographs. The first person in line was this really pretty dame; I never got her name, or maybe I did and I forgot because I was just shocked she was actually talking to me. She's the type you'd like, Bucky, but then again are there any types you _don't_ like? Don't worry, it's not a bad thing, and I'm smiling while writing this. This gal? Long, shiny blonde hair, big eyes, shy smile. But not really shy, just that kind of smile where she's playing at being shy. You know, how you get when you're around a cute redhead. Look, it's hard not to notice these things when I spent so much time tagging along with you. But this girl, this woman, she looks up at me through these long, long eyelashes and says, "Hi," all breathless. And then I kid you not, she blinked a couple times, real slow, and handed me her program book to sign.

I think it's the worst signature I've ever done.

And then, when I handed her program back to her, she giggled and stood up on tiptoe and _gave me a kiss on the cheek_ before Kevin could get her ushered off. He said he was sorry, and shoved another pen in my hand, but I would be lying to you if I said I remember anything else that happened last night. And now I realize I was even stupider: not only did I not get her name, I didn't even say "hi" back.

I'm going to need to get some lessons from you when this is all over. Peggy Carter pointed out to me, the morning of the procedure, "You have no idea how to talk to a woman." That was the longest conversation I'd ever actually had with one, to be honest. Peggy doesn't beat around the bush, and even if I flubbed up talking to her, she was easier to speak with than most dames. Women. Girls. I don't even know anymore. Peggy's not like most, though. She's tougher than nails and won't look up at you pretending to be shy. She'll stare you in the eye and tell you exactly what's on her mind. Maybe that's why she was sort of easier to talk to: she wasn't playing games.

I've thought about writing to her, but when I tried casually mentioning it to Kevin, he shot down the idea faster than a Lancer or Shrike could take out one of those German bombers. Fine, I didn't casually mention it, I outright asked him. No one's supposed to know the location of the SSR, he told me, not even Captain America.

I try to tell myself that the only reason I feel so fixated on Peggy is because she was the first dame to give me the time of day, but she only did it because she had to. We're at war and people do what they have to. I remind myself that when Peggy looked at me, it was with intense and thoughtful eyes and not the playful doe eyes of that blonde last night. Peggy is all business, doing what needs to be done. I think she'd be able to resist even your charms, Buck.

How did you do it? All of it: talk to a girl, take her out, take her dancing (heck, even the dancing part eludes me)... Of all the things we shared growing up, that was one part of your life I always stayed back from, because you needed that for yourself. That, and I don't think your girl would have appreciated me tagging along, and the way our conversations always seemed to spiral into talk of baseball or movies. You never had trouble making a girl look at you with those big eyes and that little smile, or knowing what to say to make her giggle.

I never really asked how close you and Connie were. I know you'd gone out with her a few times, and you were holding her hand that last night. But did you love her? Have you ever been in love? I wonder sometimes what it's like. Before this procedure, before all the stage lights and signatures and… fine, fame, the only time a girl would look at me was if I coughed or if she was afraid I was going to keel over. And now when they look at me they see Captain America, the man with a plan. I'd love for a dame to actually see Steve Rogers, the man with no plan. It almost feels worse now that they're noticing me, because I'm completely clueless when it comes to noticing them back.

They say that all's fair in love and war, but I'd almost think, at this point, that war's easier. You know who the enemy is, and develop a strategy to eliminate them. When it comes to love, there's no strategy. It's luck. Or maybe there is a strategy, and I just don't know how to develop it yet. I'm beginning to wonder if I ever will. Who knows, maybe when this is all over I'll get it figured out. With the way things are going, love can't be a priority right now. There's too much at stake to lose focus.

Who am I kidding, you've probably found a pretty English or French girl by now. Bucky Barnes, busting Nazis and breaking hearts all across Europe. They could make a comic book about you, you know.

Save a dame for me (or at least to introduce to me),

Stevie


	12. Star-Spangled Heels

Dear Bucky,

Remember when we saw Wizard of Oz? You loved the Technicolor that they used while Dorothy was in Oz, but I think I'll always like the Kansas parts best. Dorothy got to see the world over the rainbow, but all she really wanted all along was home. Oz helped her appreciate home, and I think this tornado of a trip has done it for me.

From Hoboken to Spokane, I'm the star-spangled man with a plan. And now I've been to all of those places. Every city has its charms, but I miss New York, and not just New York, but Brooklyn. I don't think anyone would try to beat me up now if I returned. But I don't know if I actually will return. I don't know if I'll make it to Europe, and I definitely won't be heading out into the Pacific. I don't know if I'll end up in a lab or some government warehouse for war artifacts. I've seen over the rainbow, and I'd really love to click my star-spangled heels and get back to Brooklyn, but I don't think I can.

I'm tired, Buck. I feel like I have no right to be, given what you and the 107th and a thousand other people are doing every day. But I am. I suppose I also just miss my friend. Kevin and Bill are great guys, and I suppose someday this tour will be a great memory that we'll share. But somehow I don't see either of them agreeing to go chase down any witches or flying monkeys with me, not the way you would.

I hope you've made some good friends in the 107th, guys you can trust to watch your back when someone has you on the ropes. Do you think about Brooklyn, and Coney Island and the Cyclone, and that guy who used to sell popcorn on our street corner on Fridays after school? I wonder if he still does it, or if he sold his cart for the metal parts.

I'm sure the old haunts will still be there, but they'll have changed by the time I get back. I think even if I could click my heels and be back home this instant nothing would be the same. I'm not the same. It will sound stupid, but I want to call Brooklyn home because it always has been; but I don't know if I can anymore. But nowhere else is, either. Maybe you can save a spot in the mess tent for me, just in case. Or at least so I know someone is waiting for me to arrive and welcome me.

My heels really don't have sparkles (and nothing happens when I click them-yes, I tried don't laugh, fine, I know you're laughing),

Steve


	14. First, the Bad News

Dear Bucky,

I used to hate it when you'd tell me you had good news and bad news, and then ask me which you should tell first. You don't do that to a guy; it riles him up, especially when the news is about dames. I don't know how the good news first softens the blow; all it ever did was make me dread the bad news that was coming next.

So because I'm a good friend and a decent guy, I'm giving you the bad news first to get it out of the way.

The Captain America USO tour is officially over.

...In the United States.

The good news? There is no good news. It's GREAT news. Brandt secured clearance for us to head to Europe and perform for the soldier camps!

Go ahead, read it again, because I'm not kidding with you: in less than a week I'll be overseas. I never thought I'd see as much of America as I did; I didn't think I was even _ever_ going to see Europe. Brandt and Kevin are getting everything in order.

Everyone is beyond excited. Some of the girls are talking about finding that special soldier, and they all have stars in their eyes when they talk about it. Kind of the way your younger sister did when she had her eye on that boy in her math class. I still remember how insulted she was when you suggested teaching her how to punch a person properly… and how grateful she was that you had taught her that skill when that boy turned out to be a complete jerk. Kind of funny, you teach Becky how to throw a punch in one afternoon, and she can knock a guy down. Try to teach me to box for an entire summer, and I'm still spending more time kissing the mat than standing up.

I always address your letters to the 107th, and trust that the post will get them to you, but I realized I don't even know where you're stationed now. It's strange because going to Europe could mean...well… anywhere. We have a few stops scheduled, most of them far from the thick of fighting. We start in London and and then hit the mainland.

I keep hoping that maybe once this part of the tour is over they'll finally let me fight. I feel like an indentured servant in a sense, like this is the price I pay for agreeing to be a walking, talking (no, not singing and dancing, I don't do that, you know how terrible I am at those things) experiment. And maybe if I just do one more thing that they ask of me, I'll go with Brandt's blessing. I try to remember that Kevin said Brandt could _try_ to get me to the front lines. When I looked over at Kevin, during Brandt's announcement, he shrugged and had that "we'll see" sort of expression on his face. It was similar to that look your dad got whenever you asked to take the car on a Saturday afternoon. Like, there's a _chance_ that you'll get what you want, and that chance keeps you hanging on.

I've been hanging onto this chance ever since that night you left, when Erskine said he could give me just a chance. It was still more of a chance than I'd ever hoped for, and I've been clinging to that. I know you're probably smiling, thinking "Good ol' Steve." I've come this far, Buck. I'll actually physically _be in_ Europe, which is more than I could say a week ago. Maybe once I'm there. Maybe once they see that I'm needed. Maybe once the USO tour is over. Maybe.

Either way I hope I get to see you. I'd hate to do the tour and then be dragged back to the States without fighting, but I don't think I could do it without seeing you first. If Brandt can't get me cleared for fighting, maybe he can at least arrange for us to hang out and have a beer and catch up, even if just for a day. I've been writing to you, but it's no substitute for actually seeing your best friend, and the closest thing you have to a family.

Things will be hectic for the next few days, so the next time I write, it will probably be from England. Just writing that makes me jittery. It makes it feel real, in a way that hasn't felt real ever since all of this began. Nothing is set in stone, but it's another step in the right direction, and that's good news.

Heading Over Soon,

Steve


	15. Feeling Stupid

Dear Bucky,

For the first time ever, when you tell me "I told you so," I won't be angry with you. I thought I understood what was going on. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought you took all the stupid with you, when you left. I've felt nervous, a little silly, and probably foolish since all this began, but since coming overseas I feel completely, utterly stupid.

Captain America may be a symbol of hope to the American people, but I don't think the average soldier sees it that way. I've been fake-punching Bill for a couple months at least; but these are guys who have been in combat with Nazi forces for longer than that, and it's real. It's not just a song and dance routine that makes them feel good about doing their part. They're doing more than their part. They're killing and dying and watching their friends die. I knew war was about those things. That's not what gets to me. It's how stupid I was to think that what I was doing was, in any way, close to this. We're all on the same side. I say that mostly to convince myself.

I get up in front of these guys who've seen stuff I can't even imagine in my worst dreams. They stare at the girls. They tune out when I start talking. There's no applause, no lights, just this emptiness. They'd rather be playing poker or drinking beer, or home with their families or the girl they left behind. They're wearing dirty fatigues and nursing injuries and would rather be sleeping and I'm up here in red, white, and blue, acting like I know what I'm talking about. Even before the serum I've never felt like such an imposter in my life.

I've been to England and France, and we're heading to Italy next. I should have written to you sooner, but there's been a lot to process. It's been hard to admit that I've been so ignorant. Not to you, but to myself. You know me better than anyone Bucky, and you knew even back then that I didn't really understand what I was getting myself into. I understand now. And I want more than ever to fight, to prove that I'm not as stupid as I've made myself out to be, and to truly do my part to serve and win the war. I don't want to see all those empty, tired eyes and grim faces. _That's_ my plan, star-spangled or not.

I hope you're stationed in Italy, and that you're back from the front lines, so you can see what I've been telling you about all these months. We can have a good laugh, and then go out there and win the war, no matter what Brandt or Phillips or anyone else says. I've seen the reality now, what you were trying to tell me-though I'm not sure at the time you even really understood it. I don't think any of us could, until we see it for ourselves. I feel stupid; but I'm going to make up for it, come hell or high water.

Meet You at the Front,

Steve

_PS, you won't get to see me punch Bill. Kevin pulled every string he could and got Bill's wife a discharge. She met him after a show in France, and Kevin personally put them in an escorted vehicle to the airfield with papers for a flight home. For both of them. I don't think I've ever seen three happier people in my life. Makes me want to fight even harder._


	16. Stupid, Defined

_16\. Stupid, Defined_

_Italy/Austria/somewhere, November 1943_

Bucky:

Doing something stupid. Met Peggy in Italy who told me about the 107th being captured by Hydra. Phillips says you're probably dead. Writing this letter to you in the event that you're not, and if something happens to me, you know I did what I could to save you. And if not you, the others, because it's what you would have done. You never left me, Bucky, and I can't in good conscience follow orders and remain behind, not when there's something I can do. I'm just one guy. I'm just one big ball of red, white, and blue stupidity, but if doing the right thing is stupid, then I'll be the stupidest guy that ever walked God's green earth.

I'm not a hero. I'm just too stupid to walk away from a fight, no matter how badly outnumbered I am. You once swore to me that you were with me until the end of the line. Well, the line hasn't ended, not yet, as far as I'm concerned. I'll either see you on the other side, or die trying.

SR


	17. 1944: Runaway Train

Dear Bucky,

You know the worst part about being a super soldier? I can't get drunk. I've gone through every bottle of beer I can find in this place. I've downed whiskey and brandy, the way we did whenever we were toasting another toppled Hydra facility. Nothing. I used to wonder if you ever got my letters, and then I just didn't think about it after we were finally reunited because we didn't need letters. If I needed to tell you something, or get advice, you were right there again.

And once again, you're not. And you're never going to get this letter, and it's my stupid fault. I shouldn't have let you come on the train mission. But I knew you had it out for Zola, and I knew that saying no would have resulted in you going anyway, so I try not to blame myself too much. But it's hard. I see that shocked look on your face as you're dangling off the side of a runaway train. I hear you scream for no more than a second before it's lost to the wind and the engine and the roar of the train on the tracks. And then there's nothing, nothing but gray and white mountainside and chasm rushing by, and I understand that empty look I saw on so many soldiers' faces now.

I knew we swore to be together until the end of the line. I just didn't think the line would end so soon. I think about our side-by-side brownstones in Brooklyn; taking our kids to Coney Island; teaching our boys to play catch, and maybe taking them to a ball game. I think about all the things that we and countless others were supposed to have, but can't because of this damned war.

I'm about to do the stupidest thing of all. I'm going after Schmidt, alone if I have to. I might not survive, and I'm fine with that. If I did make it out alive, what do I have to go back to? I have no family. I never really had a home, not after I left Brooklyn. I'd rather die trying to save the world for others than sit back and let it go to hell if just to stay alive. Besides, like you said the night you left New York: it's war. People are dying. More people will die if I just keep sitting here, drinking and hoping for miracles.

I keep trying to remember that you died doing what you believed in. It doesn't make it any easier. How and why you died doesn't change the fact that you're never coming back. You always looked out for me and the moment I had to look out for you, I let you fall.

I should have begged for the resources to look for you. I should have defied orders again. So many things I should have done, and I didn't do any of it.

I included a personal letter to your family in the formal condolence letter Phillips sent. They'll know you died a hero.

You were my best friend, Bucky. Nothing will ever change that.

No regrets,

Steve

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Letters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7988500) by [andjudar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andjudar/pseuds/andjudar)




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